When We Left Cuba(69)

I was wrong.

“We still want different things,” I echo.

“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “Who knows? The world might change and surprise us.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, I want you. No one else.” He kisses my cheek, his hand resting on my waist for a moment before he releases me. “I’m in London until Monday. I’m at the Ritz. If you want to see me, I’ll be waiting for you. If you don’t, I understand. I’ll go back home. I won’t bother you again.”

And just like that, he leaves me standing alone on the balcony, wondering if I should go after him.



* * *



? ? ?

I walk back into the ballroom a few minutes later, more than a little rattled by seeing Nick again, searching the room for the Soviet colonel. All I want is to finish the mission I was sent here to complete and to go back to my flat, where I can be alone with my thoughts.

Where is he?

I weave my way through the crowd, casually sipping champagne, attempting to look as though I am not searching for a spy, a chill running down my spine.

And then I see him.

The colonel is tucked away in the corner of the room, his back against the wall, engaged in conversation with a woman whose hand rests on the sleeve of his dress uniform and another gentleman who gesticulates wildly.

“Beatriz?”

My stomach sinks at the sound of my name, at the voice I recognize too well.

I pivot, pasting a false smile on my face, my heart pounding.

“Ramon? What are you doing here?” I ask, not giving him a chance to pose the same question to me first.

If I’ve learned anything in the social whirl or as a spy, it’s to bluff my way through everything.

“I—uh—I came with some friends,” he answers. “What are you doing here?” he asks after a beat, and the time I’ve spent watching him stumble over his answer has given me ample opportunity to formulate my own response.

“I’m on a date.”

Ramon blinks.

“I didn’t think you and I were exclusive or anything,” I say, feigning the apology in my tone. “I assumed you were seeing other people as well.”

“I was,” he answers, the surprise in his voice contradicting his words.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the colonel break away from his companions, walking across the room.

Go away.

“I should return to my date.” I lean forward, attempting to keep my tone light. I flash Ramon a peek at my cleavage before pulling back.

Is he here for the Soviet colonel? To spy on the colonel’s movements for Fidel to pass on to the Soviets? Or is he here for some other reason entirely?

The decision is reached, quickly, no time for second-guessing. I glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with Ramon, channeling all of the inner turmoil and angst I felt when I saw Nick earlier, attempting to look like a girl who is torn between two men, a silly, foolish girl—and one easily discounted at that.

Confusion stirs in Ramon’s eyes, confusion and a prick of male vanity. He never once considered I was indulging in other dalliances while we flirted, and I hope that misstep combined with his surprise at seeing me tonight is enough to throw him off the scent.

I need the microfilm.

I turn away from Ramon, my legs wobbling as though I am unsteady on my heels, as though I am a girl who is rattled by this.

I pitch forward, colliding with the Soviet colonel, upending my champagne glass all over his elegant uniform. I rear back, just in time for him to slip the microfilm in my clutched hand, my body shielding the handoff from the rest of the room. I babble apologies to the colonel while he dabs at his jacket with an elegant handkerchief. I don’t look back at Ramon, but I feel his gaze on me, and I hope I have done a good job of convincing him I am just an innocent girl, even as a sense of triumph fills me, the microfilm curled in the palm of my hand.

With one last apology, I brush past the colonel, ready to be done with the party, to return to the safety of my flat and wait until the next morning when I can complete the dead drop.

I stumble, my heel catching on some nearly imperceptible fault in the flooring, and this time, the reaction is entirely genuine.

Nick stands near the front hallway, his coat in hand, his gaze riveted by the scene I’ve just made. His expression is one I’ve recognized countless times before, the mask he wears in public when he is the consummate politician firmly in place. And still—I know him well enough, have seen the personal side to him often enough, to register that he hasn’t been fooled by any of this, and I almost feel sorry for him.

He fell in love with a socialite and has gotten a spy in return.

I sweep past the colonel, careful to keep from meeting Nick’s gaze once more. I fear he will read the expression on my face, that he will do something to give me away.

The cool air hits me as I walk out the front door, scanning the line of sleek cars manned by drivers waiting for their clients to emerge. I glance around, slipping the microfilm into my clutch.

It’s just my luck there isn’t a cab to be had this evening.

I pick up my skirt in my other hand, steeling myself for the walk ahead of me.

“Need a ride?”

I turn slowly at the familiar voice.

“Actually, I do.”

He smiles.

“Where should I tell my driver to drop you?”